


the devil close behind

by ymorton



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 19:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10703958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton/pseuds/ymorton
Summary: written march 2015, the day after zayn left 1d





	the devil close behind

He makes his way from Louis’ room to Harry’s, knocks on the door. It takes Harry a minute, and he answers with only pants on, hair loose around his face, a red crease on one cheek from his pillow.

“Hey,” he says, nodding Zayn inside. Zayn steps in, gnawing at his bottom lip, his mouth sour and dry from smoking up.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Zayn says, too quickly. He fingers at the collection of rings Harry’s left on the hotel desk. He takes them off every night to sleep, or else he somehow hits himself in the face with them and wakes up with bruises. Zayn’s seen it happen.

“Get your flight and everything?” Harry asks, yawning. He backs up to sit on the bed, and Zayn leans back against the desk, scrubs a hand through his hair. Harry’s half-asleep, scratching idly at the hair on his thighs, all heavy eyelids and slow breaths.

“Yeah, got it. Leaving early tomorrow. Today, I guess.”

Harry twists around to peer at the digital clock on the nightstand. “Yeah.”

They fall silent.

Harry yawns again, into the crook of his elbow, and Zayn watches him.

“Haz?”

“Yeah.” Harry yawns again, eyes watery at the corners.

“Remember that, uh. Night, back in like, America, last summer.”

Harry looks up at him. “Which night?”

“Texas, maybe. When the A/C broke in your room and you-”

“Oh, ha, yeah,” Harry says, huffing out a low laugh. “How fucked was that.”

Zayn swallows. “And you came to mine.”

Harry blinks a few times, eyes clearing. He clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“And we, uh.” Zayn huffs a laugh. “We’ve done some shit, Haz, huh.”

Harry’s tense, now, his big shoulders hunched.

That night - Texas, it was. Houston. It was the last time they’d-

It’s just, they were stoned and so _hot_. Stripped to their pants on a hotel bed and Harry rolled over, pressed his sweat-slick cheek to Zayn’s chest and moaned low.

From there on it was an easy slide to slot their legs together and move, Harry’s half-hard prick rubbing against his through damp cotton, the friction making them both groan. His warm, slick mouth on Zayn’s. His body above him, smelling like chlorine and faded sunscreen, a heavy press of skin on skin.

Sometimes Zayn watches Harry on stage and can’t believe the things they’ve done. _Some shit_ doesn’t really cover it.

Harry’s quiet for a long minute.

“How’s it look, with Perrie?” he asks, words hesitant. “She, uh - think she’ll, you know-”

God, Zayn doesn’t want to talk about Perrie. He wants to see her so bad, he wants to see her face, he wants to explain himself. He wants to press his cheek right between her tits, where she always smells sweet and powdery. He wants to just- sleep there, for days.

He just doesn’t want to fucking _talk_ about her.

When he was seventeen he and Harry fucked for the first time, in a shoddy hotel room in Sheffield with starched-stiff sheets and weird-smelling pillows. Harry licked Zayn’s fingers before he pressed them up against his arse, and bit Zayn’s shoulder when Zayn pushed inside him, let out a muffled groan.

“D'you want to do it again?” Harry says when Zayn doesn’t answer, low in his throat, and Zayn looks at him, surprised.

“What?”

“Like Texas.” Harry’s eyes flicker, and then he drops to his knees, sliding off the bed, landing with a thud on the carpet.

“Harry-”

“Don’t, like,” Harry mumbles, kneeing his way forward, and Zayn doesn’t move away when Harry starts to undo the zip of his jeans. Fuck, his heart’s pounding. Been a long time. He’s gonna see Perrie _tomorrow,_ and he still can’t keep his dick to himself - that’s what Louis would say, if he could see what Zayn’s doing right now.

But Louis isn’t there, and it’s not about his dick, anyway, it’s about Harry.  

“Haz.”

“It’s alright,” Harry mumbles, sliding his hands down Zayn’s hips until his jeans and pants are taut around his thighs. “It’s alright.”

It’s almost definitely not. Nothing fucking is. Zayn puts his hands in Harry’s hair anyway, and Harry exhales harshly, breath puffing hot against Zayn’s dick, starting to harden.  

“Remember the first time we- we did this?” Zayn asks, shakily, because he’s an idiot.

“Stop bloody asking if I remember things,” Harry chokes, before he curls his hand around the shaft, sucks at the head of Zayn’s dick.

Zayn puts his hand in Harry’s hair, rocks his hips gently into the soft wet heat of Harry’s mouth. He can feel Harry’s throat contract, the gasp of his breath. His hair’s soft under Zayn’s fingers.

Sometimes he doesn’t feel like he knows Harry at all- like Harry’s an utter mystery to him, gleaming and inscrutable and complex. And then sometimes, these times - when they touch - he knows everything there is to know. Harry’s soft hair and his mouth and the way he opens up for Zayn even now. It’s simple.

_Love you_ , Zayn wants to say, and he would, too, except his dick is down Harry’s throat and it might be taken the wrong way.

He chokes out a helpless laugh, tugs Harry back onto his dick by the hair when Harry starts to pull off like he’s going to talk. Harry grunts low and takes it, shuffling closer on his knees, one big hand resting hot on Zayn’s hip. His fingers press into Zayn’s tattoo, then curl around the bend of his hip.

Harry’s going somewhere bigger. He wants things Zayn doesn’t want. It’s bloody terrifying sometimes.

Zayn pulls his hair harder. Harry whines, eyes fluttering, swallows hard around Zayn’s dick until Zayn nearly whites out with pleasure.

He comes, and Harry swallows, rocks back on his heels, licking his mouth. Zayn’s clutching the desk with both hands, breath shuddering fast, and he has to consciously slow it down, inhale deep to keep from panicking. A sick shivery panic right in the bottom of his stomach.

He wants to tell Harry not to leave him, except Zayn’s the one who’s leaving, so it wouldn’t make sense. 

Harry presses his face into Zayn’s belly, hand reaching between his legs, and Zayn shakes himself.

“Get on the bed,” he says, shoving gently at Harry’s shoulders. Harry looks up at him, red-eyed, lips swollen.

“Bed,” Zayn says, ignoring the terrified clench in his throat.

He lies Harry out on his back, puts his hand down between Harry’s legs, on the heavy bulge of his dick in his soft cotton pants. He doesn’t take it out at first, just rubs Harry with his palm, while Harry shudders under him, thick and hard and worked-up just from having Zayn in his mouth.

When he actually gets his hand around Harry’s dick, Harry moans for a minute and then fumbles for Zayn’s mouth, pulls him into a kiss.

Zayn opens his mouth for Harry’s tongue, tasting bitter.

They kissed for the first time years and years ago. Drunk and giggly in Liam’s hotel room after a show, somewhere near Manchester. An empty wine bottle on the floor between them, and Harry licking his lips and grinning when his spin landed on Zayn. Zayn was very drunk, and Harry held him steady with a hand on his jaw, and they mouthed at each other wetly for a minute until Louis wolf-whistled and Harry broke away, flushed, dimples flashing. Zayn sat back down and put a pillow over his lap. Gave Niall a dead arm when he wouldn’t stop laughing.

Sometimes he thinks he was in love with Harry for a while, back then. Just a few frantic months, maybe, when they were on the road and Zayn missed his family and Harry used to crawl into his bed to sleep curled against his back like a snoring hot water bottle. They shared everything back then - stories and food and headphones and girls.

Zayn breaks away from the kiss, rubs his thumb hard over the wet head of Harry’s cock, and Harry hisses, watches Zayn with wide eyes, tongue between his teeth. He looks wary, pink-cheeked and half-gone.

Zayn can feel his throat tighten at the sight of him, and he leans forward to suck at Harry’s neck, mumble in his ear. “Gonna come for me?”

Harry runs his hand up over his own chest, thumbs at his nipple, hard and pink. Zayn twists his hand on the upstroke, tugs Harry nice and tight. It’s not often that they do this, not anymore, but Zayn doesn’t forget. It’d be hard to forget Harry, wouldn’t it.

No one’s ever going to forget Harry. No one on the entire fucking planet. 

Zayn trembles, lets out a shaking breath and moves his hand faster, stripping Harry’s cock until Harry grunts and nuts off all over Zayn’s palm, onto the flat of his own belly, white smeared over his hip tattoos.

He slumps back when he’s done, looking pleased with himself, eyelids lowered. Zayn can’t stop staring at him. He dips down to steal a kiss from Harry’s half-open mouth, soft and plush, and Harry sighs into it happily.

Zayn pulls away to fetch a tissue. His stomach’s tight, clenching nervously, and suddenly it feels like a trick, to be sitting here with Harry acting normal.

“Are you coming back to London at the break?” he asks, trying to sound unconcerned. It doesn’t matter, does it? In London, Zayn is Perrie’s. That’s how it works.

It’s just when he’s away that he starts to slip.

Zayn doesn’t know Harry very well in London, when Harry’s dressed up in Saint Laurent and palling around with posh people who talk fast and tell clever jokes and look at Zayn like he’s a mannequin, pretty but blank.

He doesn’t know Harry in LA, either, where Harry wears his shirts unbuttoned to the navel and looks so, so happy. So loose.

Zayn knows Harry here. Hotel beds. He knows the curve of Harry’s jaw by the dim light of a bedside lamp, or the hollow of his dimples when he grins at Zayn on stage, like everyone should be just as happy as he is. Like Zayn should be happy.

Zayn really fucking wants to be happy.

“Mmm, dunno,” Harry murmurs. He stretches in bed, back arching luxuriously, shamelessly naked. “Maybe for a bit.”

Zayn nods, slowly.

“I should get back,” he says. “Flight’s early.”

Harry looks over at him, scratching his come-sticky belly.

“It’ll be good for you to, like, get a little time to rest,” he says, blinking slowly. “Don’t worry about us, Zayner.” 

Zayn struggles to swallow. “Yeah,” he manages to say, trying not to stare too greedily at the curves and lines of Harry’s body.

“I’ll see you soon,” Harry yawns, before he pulls Zayn down and presses a soft kiss to his mouth, fingers heavy against the back of Zayn’s neck. Zayn stays there, for a moment. Breathing out against Harry’s mouth. For a sickening second he thinks he’s going to cry, something rising in his throat.

He holds it back. Straightens up, lets out a hoarse cough.

“Yeah,” he says.

“What time d'you have to be at the airport?”

“Dunno, like seven, I think. Car’s coming at five.”

“Blegh,” Harry mumbles, and Zayn chokes out a laugh, watching his nose wrinkle. He does love Harry. He really fucking does. There’s no one else like him.

Zayn can’t breathe, his chest painfully tight. He needs to go to bed, catch a few hours of sleep.  

“Love you, you know that,” he says, because he can’t not say it.

Harry looks up at him.

“Love you too,” he says, slowly.

Zayn nods, gives Harry a pat on the stomach. “I’ll see you.”

Harry nods, tugging the sheet up over his hips. “The 28th.”

“The 28th,” Zayn says, letting out a breath. It feels like ages away. Travel will eat up a few days, though, and then Perrie’s in studio for a while so that’ll keep her busy- and he wants to see his family, and it’s all-

He scrubs a palm over his face, then drops his hand to Harry’s hand, resting upturned on the bed, warm and open.

He squeezes hard, once, before he forces himself to get up and leave the room.

Harry’s door shuts with a heavy thunk, and Zayn stands there for a minute before he starts off towards his own room, feeling unsteady. Something in his gut says it’s the last time he ever does that, with Harry.

But then again, he always thinks it’s the last time, and it hasn’t been so far. This time isn’t any different. Why would it be?


End file.
